Deuce
by inthelookingglass
Summary: Tennis AU in which the Les Amis are tennis players. As Grantaire struggles to come back from an awful injury, Enjolras battles to win his first grand slam. However, he's got competition, as up and coming players Jehan and Courfeyrac are showing particular promise.
1. The Angry Scotsman

It's approaching summer. It's not exactly sunny, but a humid warmth is beginning to approach onto England which manages to give the illusion of good weather. Just as the crowd contemplates climbing out early from the anti-climatic match to escape the heat, a mangled call of 'out' shatters one man's dreams. All eyes focus on the man, who slams his racket against the court in anger. The racket snaps in two, the strings tearing apart as he hastily chucks it back into his bag.

"Challenge!" he screams in his thick accent, looking as if he's about to climb up the umpire's chair and batter him.

But he doesn't have any challenges left. They show hawk eye anyway, as if just to rub it in the poor man's face. The ball was in. His opponent Sebastian Grantaire, a German man, falls onto the ground, his arms balled into fists which he holds up high into the air. The crowd boos as the man hastily lifts his bags, storming out of the court without even acknowledging the crowd of little kids by the exit holding out tennis balls and programmes for him to sign.

The man is Charles(or Charlie) Bahorel, dubbed by the papers as 'the angry Scotsman'. It's no wonder that he's furious; so close to winning his first grand slam and it's torn away from him at the hands of an 'out' ball that was actually in, but try telling that to the press. Pages and pages of lies about his rivalry with the German champion; rumours of fights in the changing rooms and childhood rivalries and a long-running mutual hatred between the pair.

Unbeknownst to Bahorel, Grantaire's reign as number one may be slipping from his fingers. After dictating the tennis world for the past three years with his immaculate skill in going for every shot and being able to make it, his way of playing is finally beginning to take it's toll. Despite his win at Wimbledon this year, he spent the entire last set feeling as if his knees were about to buckle beneath him. An old ankle injury causes a horrible click when he walks sometimes, and he can just tell that he won't last much longer. The upcoming US open terrifies him, because the hard court is the surface which causes his injuries to flare up.

When the mighty fall, they _fall, _and they fall hard. Grantaire's downfall is unexpected, even the most avid tennis fan being unable to notice his recent struggles. He makes it through the first round as if by default; his opponent Joly faints with the heat towards the end of the second set and pulls out. His next opponent is Jean Prouvaire, a young Frenchman(who usually goes by the name Jehan) who's recently started taking singles more seriously after his doubles partner retired.

Despite his inexperience, the boy is _good _and makes Grantaire run. Drop shots force him to pull away from the baseline, cross court shots force him left and right. His legs feel as if they're twigs, about to break at any second.

_Crack._ The crowd gasps. Grantaire falls onto the floor, curling into a ball. He's not known for being one to show injury, unlike certain players who dive about and groan and call the trainer in for what ends up as nothing. He looks as if he's unconscious, but he just doesn't want to move, as if one flicker would send pain searing through his leg. The trainer makes a mad dash to get to the court as Grantaire covers his face in shame. The crowd is in silence; Grantaire is a well liked player, and any bad injuries in this sport are always horrible to watch. Jehan tepidly tiptoes to the other side of the net to see if his opponent is okay, collecting towels and Grantaire's bottle of water on his way. Officials are already by Grantaire's side, ensuring that he stays still. Just as the trainer is running over, he gags horribly in pain, to which Jehan reacts by gently resting his hand on his shoulder. As the trainer tends to the ankle, Jehan insists upon making sure Grantaire is alright. He folds up one of the towels, resting it underneath his head, before placing another beside him in case he retches again. He helps him take a sip of water, before sitting back and leaving the trainer to do his job.

The crowd erupts in applause, although it seems to make Grantaire even more uptight, so Jehan shushes them calmly, before taking a seat and watching as the trainer tries to help Grantaire to stand so he can hop out; but he can't. His ankle is obviously broken, and he feels so weak that he can't even limp out with the support of the other man. A wheelchair is rolled out, Grantaire's shoved into it, and he's wheeled away to be treated properly.

Prouvaire is devastated. He's won by default, but it doesn't feel like a success. It's the furthest he's ever gotten in the men's singles of a grand slam, yet he'd much rather have taken the loss. He goes on to play fellow Frenchman, Julien Enjolras in the next round, or so he thinks, because Enjolras also pulls out over the shoulder injury responsible for his absence from the last three majors.

It's been an awful day for the tournament, with several players retiring from injuries, and several good players losing their matches; this includes Adrian Feuilly, a player who looked like he could maybe win his first grand slam, who is pipped to the post by Marius, and Dutch player Adam Combeferre, the world number two who seems to be reaching the later stages of his sporting career. The tournament ends with English serve and volley player Marius Pontmercy against Bahorel, who manages to use his anger over Wimbledon to win the last major of the year.

The media are devastated. Marius is the papers' big money maker at the moment, with his relationship with singles player Cosette having recently been announced. They turn Bahorel into public enemy number one, detailing every little challenge which tore the points away from their precious little Marius, and every hostile look and every powerful serve which threatened his opponent.

Grantaire's injury hasn't been heard about much, as no new information has been given. The day after the final, his team make an announcement that his ankle is fractured and that he won't be playing for at least the next year. He's devastated, knowing that until he's able to play again he'll slip into bad habits and completely ruin his fitness. As Bahorel sets out for his celebratory round of drinks, Grantaire uses alcohol in his own way; to drown his emotions. He insists on being alone for a bit after he gets back from the hospital and his watchful team have left. Back in the day before he started to take his tennis seriously, he was quite the drinker. He still craves it, but his team never allow him unless he's celebrating and being careful. The alcohol feels good as it trickles down his throat, and the guilt doesn't even hit him. He's been lucky that the press haven't found out; they'd have a field day.


	2. Going Out On A High Note

A new year brings another four majors. The gap between the US Open and the Australian is filled with smaller tournaments, or for some, like Julien Enjolras, a chance to figure out where they are going wrong.

Enjolras, despite reaching the finals of all four slams so far, is yet to actually win one. If he had to be honest, he has his heart set on Wimbledon. There's something about the glory of lifting that golden trophy, clothed head to toe in white, and the British crowd is always his favourite. But he's not as fit as he should be; he's slow and gets tired too easily, and especially in the winter months, his immune system can often be compromised. He only attends one tournament in the space between the two majors, but comes down with the flu just hours before he's due to go on court for the semi-final(so does his opponent, Combeferre, but Enjolras has already pulled out). He knows that his current strategy isn't working; his fitness just doesn't match his style of play.

As he considers things, he realises that the one link that doesn't quite fit is his coach. He's been working with Javert, once one of the top players, but even he knows it's not working out. He's strict, doesn't let Enjolras rest through illness or injury unless it's desperate(his shoulder was still acting up when he was pushed to play the US open), and honestly, isn't as good a coach as he's made out to be. It takes a lot of courage, but finally Enjolras makes the decision to let him go. Initially, Javert is angry, shouting and swearing about how he is the one responsible for his successful career, but eventually he gives up on trying to save his job.

In between trying to find a new coach, he seeks solace in his close friend and fellow player Combeferre. Combeferre may be one of his biggest rivals, but they trained together when they were teenagers and share a special bond. They talk a lot, about everything and anything. Enjolras isn't the most open of people when it comes to emotions, but somehow Adam Combeferre has the bizarre talent of getting him to talk. This particular conversation, however, it's Enjolras providing the advice.

Combeferre's getting older(okay, mid thirties isn't exactly old but still), and his style of play just isn't working any more. He's slowing down, which means he's struggling against the other players and their strong backhands and forehands. Immaculate technique is great, but without speed it's useless. He isn't making the impossible shots he used to be able to make. He isn't able to make it into the net when the other player hits a surprise drop shot. He struggles with five set matches. He doesn't want to retire from the sport, but he knows he doesn't really have another win inside of him. He's just delaying the inevitable.

"I'm retiring," he flings his hands in the air.

"That's a little hasty, don't you think?" Enjolras' eyes widen with shock at Combeferre's announcement. "One more year, Combeferre."

"The new players are too good. They have my good technique, Enjolras, yet they also have the speed to match it. That... what's his name? Jehan... He's amazing. And Courfeyrac, the young Irish kid; he's going to win all four slams someday. I'm just making myself look stupid out there."

"You're still world number two. You're last major win was this 're just angry because you haven't won one since."

"Second round at the US Open; and that's my court... that's the one I always win."

"And you'll win it this year, you stupid man! That tournament was hell; Grantaire out for at least this year, Feuilly losing his grand slam bid... _Bahorel _won for goodness sake."

"I know myself, Enjolras," Combeferre finally sighs. "It's time."

"I don't know what I would do without you on the tour, Combeferre."

And then the idea hits him; Combeferre could be his new coach. It had been a long search to find someone suitable, and now the idea has found a home in his brain he finds it difficult to shake off. They're similar in terms of attitude on court and style of play, and he's often the only one able to get through to the stubborn blond. He doesn't want Combeferre to retire in the first place, so he saves the question just in case he manages to get through to his friend.

With another hour of talking, Enjolras finally manages to get Combeferre to agree to play the Australian Open and think about it before he makes any rash decisions. He knows his friend's retirement will be within the next few years, but he really doesn't want it to happen. He's not particularly close with any of his other competitors, at least not as close as he is with Combeferre, and he doesn't want to have to face the loneliness when he's not on the court during tournaments.

He breaks the news to Combeferre after the new year begins, with two weeks to go until the Australian Open. He's extremely open to the idea, knowing that he'll drop into a miserable state of boredom without his beloved sport, although his main priority has become making possibly his last grand slam a celebration to go out on.

He and Enjolras are on opposite sides of the draw, which is just how they like it. If they both play their cards right, it will be a Combeferre/Enjolras final, which is exactly how they want it to turn out.

Combeferre- running on the adrenaline of his prospective last grand slam- is on fire, getting to round three with ease. Almost all of his first serves make it in, and even his few second serves end up with him winning the point, and he valiantly defeats an angry Bahorel, and a strangely on-form Joly. His next round is a little more difficult(mostly because his opponent Marius' serve and volley style is something he doesn't experience often, with modern tennis players preferring to stay on the baseline) but he manages to beat him within four sets.

He feels sort of guilty for his win in the quarter final, narrowly edging through past rising newcomer Brian Courfeyrac after five long sets. The twenty-one year old is only just starting out in his bid to rise through the rankings, but it's clear that the boy has an immense amount of skill to have already reached his first quarter final of a major. He's one of the fastest players on the tour, darting about with an infectious energy that forces Combeferre to pick up the pace. It's the first time Combeferre has properly got to meet the other man, and after technical issues delay the match and give them ten minutes to speak, they become quick friends. After a long concession of deuces, the Irish boy is just beaten by the Dutch man.

He gets past Jean Prouvaire in straight sets, the young Frenchman struggling after a particularly strenuous quarter final, to find later on that day that his opponent in the final will be none other than his best friend, Julien Enjolras.

Enjolras is on top form despite the absence of a coach, his shoulder injury from the previous year having completely cleared up. He sails into the final having only lost one set. Despite his friend's bid for a win, Enjolras has promised not to go easy on Combeferre. He takes the first set, firing his strong forehand into the corners of the court. Combeferre fights back and wins the next two, a smile spreading across his face as it looks as if he's going to win the fourth set too and take the match.

He's serving for the match. He's up forty love. He chucks the ball into the air. Time seems to move slow, as if the ball hovering in the air instead of going in a parabolic curve. His racket collides with the ball and time seems to move at light speed, the ball crashing against the 'T' with such a velocity that Enjolras fails to return it.

Combeferre's legs give in and he collapses onto his back, his hands covering his face. He lifts his fist in celebration and runs up to the net to hug Enjolras. The crowd are a little confused; he's never been the kind to celebrate with so much excitement.

Everything is just a blur. He assumed he'd never win another grand slam, thinking the other players were too good and his skill was slipping. He has played some of the best tennis of his career during this particular tournament, yet his mind is still made up; he's going to retire and become Enjolras' coach. He's ushered over to the a camera for an interview before he can get a chance to process what he's going to say.

"You seem very emotional," the woman smiles. "Would you like a minute to take it all in?"

"I'm fine," he grins, an awkward laugh forming in his throat.

"Well, congratulations! You've already won fifteen grand slams; what is so special about this one?"

"Well, it's my last."

The crowd, initially wild with celebration, are silenced. The interviewer takes a second to register the information, not moving the microphone from Combeferre's face.

"It's time for me to retire," he finally speaks. "I came here today knowing that it would be my last final. Enjolras played so well, and I just know he's going to win his first major this year. He put up a good fight, and I'm just so happy that today was a success and I can go out on a high note. I've loved every minute of my career, and I just want to thank everyone who has supported me and got me to where I am today."

"So what's next for you?" the woman's interview has taken a turn, but she handles it well.

"Well," he grins over towards Enjolras. "I'm going to try my hand at coaching."


	3. The Crutch

In the crowd, you can see journalists and photographers with dollar signs for eyes as they stare towards the scene on court. Combeferre is still to announce who he's going to be coaching, but from his smiling glance towards his fellow player, everyone is already aware of what he's going to say before the words slip from Combeferre's tongue. They're on court for even longer than usual for post match celebrations, television broadcasts shifting their schedules to make room for the extension of time.

It's Enjolras' turn for the after-match interview, which is going to have to be cut shorter seeing as Combeferre's interview was so long. The crowd sees a different side to the French player as he begins to speak. He's seen as stoic and often emotionless, but today, there's a huge smile beaming across his face and he looks as if he's about to cry tears of joy. He congratulates and thanks Combeferre at the end of the interview. Just before Combeferre sets about finding his team in the crowd, he runs over to embrace Enjolras.

Elsewhere, Sebastian Grantaire watches on the television from his big home in a remote area of Germany. He's been trying to avoid anything vaguely tennis related like the plague, worried that the disappointment would hit again and and he'd drink himself into oblivion, but the Australian Open has never really been his favourite tournament, so he assumes watching the final won't be too hard. He's somehow managed to push his coach and the rest of his team away as far as he possibly can, not even wanting to think about the fact he can't train any more. His ankle is in pretty bad shape, but he's coping well without any of their help by hobbling his way about on his crutches. He hasn't even spoken to his family much, either. His mother visits every few days, but she mostly just takes care of his laundry before being on her way.

He leaves the house only when he has to; when he's ran out of food, or more likely, when he's ran out of alcohol. It's like a crutch he depends upon because he doesn't want to have to depend on other people; he doesn't want to be a burden. He's careful whenever he leaves; he doesn't shave and wears his glasses instead of contacts so that he won't be recognized.

Initially when he started playing tennis but hadn't found his current team, he drank a lot; for celebration, to drown disappointment, just for the sake of it really. He began to get noticed for having talent, but the drink compromised his fitness so he gave it up. He barely even noticed it's absence; tennis was like his drug now. He was winning, and he was number one, and he was _good._

He's one of the best, if not the best, tennis player of this time, maybe even of all time. Not only has he the skill and fitness for the sport, he has the brains for it as well. He is tactical, knowing exactly what shots to play and how to make his opponents tick. And off the court too, his intelligence shines. In interviews, he's charming and well spoken, and best of all, light hearted. He doesn't take himself seriously; there's no end to the number of youtube clips there are of him impersonating other players(his Bahorel is his best by far), singing wildly or just cracking jokes in interviews. He's clever, using his sarcastic nature to his full advantage.

But he won't be the best for long. He's going to slide down the rankings immediately, and it's going to kill him. The drink will smash his fitness into smithereens, but he doesn't even care any more. He's convinced he'll never play again, or at least any attempts at rekindling his career with be futile. He doesn't have friends on the tour like Enjolras and Combeferre do, and very few friends off the court too. He's not exactly unsociable; he just isn't the kind of guy who doesn't like to bear his soul.

He's going to miss Combeferre. He'll still be around, but Grantaire is hesitant within Enjolras' company(the reason for this is the opposite of the hatred you'd assume exists between the pair from their interactions). It's not as if they were close friends, or anything, but he was one of the nicest of the other players; he'd smile, had heaps of sportsmanship and always went out of his way to come over and make conversation. He's almost jealous of his friendship with Enjolras; he's got friends he can drink with or watch the football with, but he doesn't have friends he can confide in, or friends he can depend on in tough times like this.

These things- plus simply the memory of his beloved sport- don't sit well in Grantaire's heart. His mind feels as if it's fragmenting, snapping apart just like the bones in his ankle. He'd pledged to make an attempt to not let himself get drunk out of his mind tonight, but the muscles in his arm betray him as he reaches for the glass sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn't even hesitate, firing the substance straight into his system.

And then the guilt. It churns away inside of him, making him feel sick to his stomach. Every slip of the alcohol feels like acid burning away at his oesophagus, but he just can't stop. He turns the television off, shoving his head into his shaking hands. He wants nothing more than to be able spill his heart out to someone, to be able to pass some of the awful feeling he has onto somebody else. But he has nobody. His mother doesn't know that he drinks outside of a glass of champagne when celebrating, he doesn't speak with his dad, his sister-the only person he can confide in- is miles away and he doesn't want to disappoint his team.

He's no stranger to loneliness. He can be on court with his opponent, the officials, the linesmen, the ball-boys and the ball-girls, the umpire and the crowd watching him, yet he still feels alone. He's not sure how he's managed to cope without alcohol for so long now he thinks about it; despite the lack of his crutch he'd managed to put up with the lower points by putting more power into his shots, or aiming for quicker serves. Somehow, he'd managed to put his negative energy into something positive; but now he couldn't do that any more. He won't be able to do it for at least a few months, and even then he'll still only be training lightly and building his fitness back up again.

He shouldn't reach for the bottle, but he does. It's going to do nothing but delay his recovery even further, and leave him without his 'good' anchor, but he doesn't even care. The alcohol provides him with the opportunity to forget whatever it is he's upset over, yet tennis only gave him a medium to let it out without harming himself. As much as he hates to admit it, he prefers the method which completely removes him from the pain and misery, even if it is only temporarily.

But there's a problem; the glass of whisky in his hand is the only alcohol left in his house, and it's too late for him to leave the house to buy more. What he's drank is enough to satisfy his body's need for the substance, but not enough to make him as catatonic as he wants to be. He's left to stir in his thoughts, not able to drown them away like he usually does. He curls up further into the sofa, because he's too tired to limp his way into his bedroom, and sobs until sleep finally takes over his body.


	4. To Hold To Love

**_I felt like after the sadness of the last chapter, I should lighten the mood a little; so Marius and Cosette it is!I(and Fantine is alive, woo!) Wasn't sure what second name to give them, so I'll just use Fauchevelent. And hey... isn't the chapter title kind of witty considering this chapter's content? :')_**

* * *

Aside from Grantaire's injury and Combeferre's retirement, the most prevalent news story in the tennis world at the moment is the blossoming relationship between Marius Pontmercy and Cosette Fauchelevent.

Cosette Fauchevelent is not only blessed with good looks; she's a fantastic tennis player. Winning most of her games without even losing a set, she's worked her way up to the top spot of the women's singles. She's much quieter than many of her competitors, keeping her emotions to herself instead of crying or getting angry. This good attitude, as well as her good sportsmanship on the rare occasions she loses, has earned her a place in the crowd's hearts.

The story of how they got to know each other- or at least the story that was documented throughout tabloids, magazines and sports websites- is rather sweet. Busy playing himself, Marius never really gets time to watch many matches. He's never been particularly clued up on the women's tennis, as he's always felt as if it was treated like a completely different world to the men's. It was at Wimbledon, more particularly, the year when Marius sprained his wrist and couldn't play past the second round. However, the injury seemed to have been all in good fate, as it meant he could go and see some tennis being played instead of playing it for once.

Cosette was playing a young girl called Azelma, who wasn't particularly the greatest player in the world, but was good enough to win a game or two before Cosette took the set. All whilst the game was going on, Marius watched from his seat which was just in front of the box Cosette's team were in. At first, he hadn't noticed the hand tapping on his shoulder, but he eventually turned around to find Cosette's mother, Fantine smiling at him.

"Marius Pontmercy?" she smiles gently.

"Ms Fauchevelent," he grins back. "Cosette is playing brilliantly!"

"How's your wrist?"

"Better. I just couldn't have completed the match last week, although I'd be fit to play now."

"It's a shame. I thought this was going to be your year."

"My time will come, hopefully."

The conversation comes to a halt as Azelma fires the ball into the net, and someone calls out 'game, set and match'. Marius cheers, and turns to grin up towards Fantine.

"We're heading out for a meal," Fantine speaks as the crowd dies down and they're about to leave. "Come with us."

By the end of the meal, Marius and Cosette were getting on like a house on fire. Fantine smiles, proud of her matchmaking skills. The pair are well matched; they both love tennis, they're both relatively laid-back, and they both don't mind the media.

The press caught on quickly, paparazzi following them around in the hope of snapping a kiss(or maybe even better, an argument) to make their money. They weren't too bothered, but decided to make a proper announcement nonetheless. Their PR teams now have the reigns, wanting to keep the pair as love-birds even if they begin to drift apart(which by the looks of things, will probably never happen) to bring sponsors and good press in. They've been turned into the power couple of tennis now; at Marius' first US open final when Bahorel won, the kiss that they had shared afterwards was on the front page of most newspapers.

They're the only real 'tennis couple' for the press to latch on to. Grantaire-who would have otherwise been a top money spinner with his number one position- hasn't been with anyone in the entirety of his sporting career. Enjolras too is another player who hasn't had a love interest, but it wouldn't matter if he had or hadn't seeing as he enjoys his privacy. Bahorel has had a string of lovers throughout his years of being in the top ten, but that earned a much more hostile reaction from the media. Joly- the great player who had previously won all four grand slams at least once, with an unfortunate tendency to be a hypochondriac- has Musichetta, but stories about their relationship don't generate much interest so they're usually left alone. The only other couple within the tennis world that is fussed over is Combeferre and his wife, but they try their best to avoid attention too, so Marius and Cosette's relationship is a godsend.

Anyway, they don't mind; they aren't getting hateful comments, the paparazzi are more respectful than they thought they would be and their coaches are happy. They've seen how the press can turn on a sportsman such as Bahorel(who's actually quite a nice guy underneath his anger issues) and twist the words that fall from his mouth, so for now, they are happy with being thrust into the spotlight.

However, there are some other players that struggle with their own position of celebrity. Enjolras is one of these players, wishing he could just play tennis without all of the superficial sponsorship deals and the public's insistence of knowing every aspect of his day to day life. Off court, he's perceived to be much quieter than other players. He's not exactly hostile; he's just not as light-hearted as some of his competitors. In interviews, he wants to talk about tennis, not who he is or isn't in a relationship with or what he thinks of his opponents off-court, and therefore doesn't often say much, seeing as that is what most interviewers insist on asking him about. He's seen as shy or just introverted(and sometimes even boring), so most of the time, he's left alone.

Brian Courfeyrac, however, is one of the players who does the opposite and embraces his celebrity status. He's young, and still harbours that naivety that forces a smile upon his face whenever he sees himself in newspapers or on TV. He's definitely not tied down; every celebrity magazine has him papped with a different girl or guy each time. He's earning himself a little bit of a reputation for his one night stands, but his jovial and charitable personality has him pinned down as one of the nicest players. He's confident without being cocky, which is rare, seeing as most players are either arrogant snobs or shy and unassuming.

He's climbing his way through the rankings quickly, making himself known as an exceptionally good player. Quick and agile, with the technique to match, he's already reached his first quarter final of a grand slam and has come out top in several other tournaments. He's well liked by the other players on the tour; he's the kind of person who just makes friends really easily. He's probably closest to Jehan so far, as they're in a similar boat; they're both just starting out on their singles careers, and are both good players who still need to earn their place.

It should be mentioned that friendships are also something that is adopted and adored by the fans as well as their love lives. Brian Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire's blossoming friendship hasn't gone amiss, being christened 'Brihan' by tennis fan-blogs full of gifsets and attention whenever they play against each other or interact off court. This wasn't exactly a new concept; 'Enjolferre' was all the range before the surge of new tennis players, and is still well-loved, with the events of the Australian Open final earning quite the response.

Even conflicts get attention, the most notable one between Grantaire and Bahorel. They don't hate each other really, but the papers seem to think they do; but then again, the papers criticise Bahorel's every move, so it's no surprise. Before Grantaire's injury, Bahorel was beginning to seem like his biggest rival, and for some reason, the papers adopted the story.

It's a shame really, that the sport has been reduced to such menial things. People don't care about the brilliant shots they make and how well they play; after who wins, it seems that the relationships between players are the most important things to them. It's exactly why Enjolras keeps his mouth closed over his personal life; it should only ever be about the tennis.


	5. Diet of A Champion

A week into his new training regime, and Enjolras knows he's made the right choice in choosing Combeferre as a new coach. He's perfectly suited to the role; his understanding of the game is so precise that he provides the Frenchman with an outpouring of valuable advice. After great deliberation, they decide to keep the number of tournaments between the Australian Open and the clay court season to a minimum while they build Enjolras' fitness. He's never cared much about the rankings anyway even if he is aiming to break into the top five in the next few years; he's always focused solely on playing the best tennis he can possibly play.

Combeferre completely understands Enjolras' mindset towards the sport. Many other players-and admittedly himself- get caught up in the more superficial aspects of tennis; the sponsorships, the public perception, the person behind the racket. Yet Enjolras does his best to avoid it all costs; he's notably turned down sponsorship deals which would see him earning double the money he gets from his sponsors already, he avoids being in the public eye and he's often criticised as having no personality.

This is most definitely not the case; he just takes his sport immensely seriously. There are those who watch him on the court and believe that his heart is encased within ice. From first impressions, this would be a valid observation; this is the man who'd stayed on his own side of the pitch when his opponent got injured(yes, it had been Marius and they're well known for not getting along great), and who'd had an uncountable amount of altercations with umpire's over bad line call. But as he begins to unravel, as he begins to let the ice melt away from his heart, he's the most compassionate man you would ever meet. He adores those around him, he adores his supporters and he adores his sport. The ice around his heart is nothing more than a barrier; being in such a high profile career, he struggles with trust.

However, he would trust Combeferre with his life; and he has, because his life is tennis. His trust is well placed; as it edges closer towards the clay court season of April and May, he feels fitter than ever; he's moving quicker, he's serving stronger and he feels like he can last even longer without getting fatigued. Combeferre is by no means a lenient coach; he insists upon a diet change, fitness drills, proper warm ups and cool downs.

Probably most importantly, he also forces Enjolras to speak up if he's not feeling up to something; he knows how often Enjolras had suffered because Javert wouldn't pick up on when he wasn't himself and force him to play through injury or illness. It's not all Javert's fault though, he discovers, because Enjolras is as stubborn as a mule. After a particularly strenuous day of training, he rolls his previously injured shoulder to suppress the dull ache when he thinks Combeferre isn't looking. Unfortunately, his new coach doesn't miss a trick and he's forced into making sure it's still okay.

With his new and improved level of fitness, Enjolras is looking forward to the upcoming tournaments. Contrary to popular belief, clay is arguably his favourite surface to play on. He favours playing aggressively from the baseline, so the slower bounce of the ball lends well to his style of play; and as a bonus, serve and volley players such as Marius Pontmercy never really manage to make it past the first rounds. Despite his many wins at many of the other clay court tournaments, Roland Garros has managed to be his least successful Grand Slam so far.

You would think- what with it being his favourite surface, and being at home- that he'd sail through The French Open, yet somehow, this is not the case. It's as if the comfort of being with in the close vicinity of his own home wants to force his body to relax; because every year, without fail, his immune system fails him. There's not been a year since his first appearance at the tournament seven years ago that he hasn't caught something in the lead up towards it, or luck hasn't been on his side in general.

The first time, a stomach bug had left him unable to play at all. The second year, he was still getting over the flu when he had to play his first match, and was too drained to play well enough to win. The third time, tonsillitis was the cause for concern; he sounded like a strangled cat in press conferences and interviews, and felt so bad he had to pull out in the third round within just two games. The fourth, he thought he'd busted his knee. On his fifth try, he fainted with the heat. His sixth attempt ended with one of the most horrible scenes to watch in tennis history, when he came down with the mother of all migraines in the middle of his second round match. It was obvious towards the end of the first set that something was bothering him, but he soldiered on until he was doubled over in pain, shaking and gagging until he was finally taken off the court. And of course last year, he missed Roland Garros over his shoulder injury.

He's hoping to avoid this unfortunate fate this year. He already feels so much better in himself from improving his fitness, so he's hoping his body will hold up better towards whatever might be thrown at it. He confesses his worries to Combeferre, who puts even more focus on building his fitness upon hearing Enjolras' concerns.

The three months of training drift by, and before he knows it, he's in Monte-Carlo for the Rolex Masters. It's been a while since he's played on clay, yet he slips into the groove immediately. While other players are more tentative, Enjolras manages to grab the title, having no fear in sliding towards the ball. Shifting towards Spain, he also is victorious in the Barcelona Open.

The tennis world is watching him religiously, sitting on the edge of their seats as the prospect of Enjolras winning the French Open grows ever more likely. There are those who think the 'French Open Flu'(which it had been christened on his third unsuccessful tournament) is going to strike again, and those who think he's just going to bottle it under pressure, but there are also those who can't help but notice the improvement in his play since the Australian Open.

He's in Munich now, on one of the training courts with Combeferre preparing for the BMW Open.

"I wonder if we'll see Grantaire at all while we're in Germany," Combeferre ponders, handing a bottle of water to Enjolras.

"He's practically recluse," Enjolras scoffs. "Nobody has seen him since."

"We should organize something."

"A party or something? No."

"No like... a meal. Cheer him up-"

"You really think being surrounded by _tennis _players who remind him of _tennis _is going to make him feel better?"

"He's a friend. I at least want to speak to him."

"Fine. Just us three or-"

"Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire? They're the only ones you can tolerate on the tour if I'm remembering correctly."

"I'm offended that you think I hate everyone..." he fakes a pout. "Oh and Feuilly, but he's not playing this tournament."

Surprisingly, Grantaire is immensely glad to see Combeferre when he goes over to ask about it. He goes alone, knowing Enjolras can come across as a little bit stand-offish. Initially, he's surprised at just how awful Grantaire looks;he's gaunt and pale, he's unshaven, he hasn't even bothered to switch his glasses for contacts. He's off his crutches now, but his leg is weak and it will be a while before he's able to train again. He wouldn't be surprised if the man didn't return to the sport, but for now he's hopeful.

He soon learns that Grantaire hasn't seen his coach since he'd had an operation on his ankle about a month after the Australian Open, and that he's barely had contact with anyone. He knows Grantaire pushed them away, but he also knows that he's feeling lonelier than he's probably ever felt in his life. He accepts the invitation for dinner enthusiastically, but there's just a glint of anxiety in his voice as he says yes. He trusts Combeferre, but Enjolras and him have never really connected and he's hardly even spoken to Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire. There's also the fact that five famous tennis players eating together at a restaurant is going to attract some kind of attention, and not one member of the public has seen him since the US Open.

He accepts despite his doubts, and before he knows it he's sitting at a table with the other four. He's cleaned himself up a bit, and looks vaguely like his former self as he takes a seat at the end of the table beside Combeferre and across from Jean Prouvaire. Although he was hesitant at first, the two men who had been like strangers to him at first quickly make their acquaintances with him. Courfeyrac reminds him of himself slightly, at least when he's in good spirits; he's loud, sarcastic and jovial. Jehan-although more eloquent- is much quieter; like a less forceful version of Combeferre.

There's a moment in the conversation where Jehan and Enjolras begin speaking in French; Grantaire and Combeferre can join in, as they know enough to get by, but Courfeyrac knows very little. He pouts, looking bemused and the others erupt in laughter. Apart from Enjolras and Combeferre, the group had never really spoken outside of small talk, but now that they've been given a chance to talk outwith the crazy world of tennis, they realize that they're a well matched bunch of friends.

"Oui, Oui! Baguette! Omelette du fromage!" Courfeyrac grins. "Vive la France!"

"Top of the morning to you!" Jehan tries- and fails miserably- to copy Courfeyrac's accent.

"Just stop with the French," he laughs. "I took Spanish in school, and I kind of failed when my team tried to teach me anything else."

"Hola," Grantaire smiles- and surprisingly, it's genuine- and the group chuckles loudly again.

They order their food, and much to Enjolras' dismay, Combeferre insists on dictating his choices. He complains, calling his coach a hypocrite considering he's ordered one of the most unhealthy things on the menu.

"Do you want to lose Roland Garros?" Combeferre asks. "Or is a cheese covered pizza more important to you?"

"But you're having-"

"I'm not playing tennis anymore. I deserve indulging in good food."

"Fine," he huffs, ordering fish instead.

"Trying to avoid the 'rhume de Roland Garros' this year, Enjolras?" Jean Prouvaire asks.

"Is that want the French press call it? I thought it had been called 'grippe de Garros," Enjolras laughs. "But yes; fingers crossed."

"All this French... ah," Courfeyrac giggles loudly.

Once they've finished their meal, the waitress comes over to ask if they want the desert menus. Enjolras says no quickly, although Combeferre practically blurts out his yes and orders cheesecake(he's finally celebrating his retirement). Courfeyrac shrugs and nods at the sound of profiteroles, knowing that he'll regret it once he's running about on the clay at the weekend, and Jean Prouvaire kindly refuses. Grantaire orders one of those alcoholic coffees instead, which earns a few glares from his fellow players-who are mostly teetotal(Courfeyrac does enjoy drinking to celebrate sometimes)- but they shrug it off as celebrating the fact he's not going to playing for a few months.

As the other three head out to divert the paparazzi who have suddenly swarmed them away from the restaurant, Grantaire and Combeferre are left within the restaurant. He relaxes a little, letting the smile that had formed on his face the whole night fade slightly.

"How are you doing, Grantaire?" Combeferre asks gently.

"Just peachy," he grins halfheartedly. "I miss it."

"You'll be back. I know you will be."

"I doubt it, Combeferre. I really do."

"Grantaire..."

"Even if I do play again, I'll never be as good as I was. And..."

"And what?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing."

"I'm just not as fit, okay?" Grantaire regrets the slip of the tongue; he'd been so close to admitting that he's been indulging in drink. "Just, leave it, yeah?"


	6. Medical Timeout

It's only Enjolras' third day being back in his home country, and with a couple of days to go until Roland Garros, he's struggling to get through a full days training. He doesn't feel ill, thankfully; he's just worn out and out of breath much quicker than he usually is. He brushes it off; this particular training session has focused mostly on his cardio respiratory endurance, so it's no wonder that he is fatigued.

He wakes up the next day, with two sleeps to go until his first match, feeling refreshed. He's got high hopes in avoiding the 'French Open Flu' this year; he's feeling good and he's playing well, so he's got his fingers crossed for a first major win. Combeferre has done admirably in improving the man's fitness; he's like a completely different player. He jumps into interviews and press for the day, and it's clear that he's a new man; even his public persona has transformed. He's smiling more, he's less reserved and he even divulges in talk that isn't about tennis.

He fires through the first few rounds of Roland Garros, slipping and sliding with an elegant grace whilst several of the other players quite literally fall flat on their faces. In the first round he doesn't lose a set, his opponent struggling to keep up with Enjolras' aggressive play. His second round goes by just as well, defeating his opponent in straight sets again. His third match isn't as easy as he'd hoped with his opponent taking the first set, but he turns it around and wins the next three. The fourth match is cut short, with his opponent pulling out over injury. It's looking ever more likely that it's Enjolras' time to shine.

He faces Jean Prouvaire in the quarter final, who has proved to be a secret clay-specialist, surprising the crowds with his unexpected success in the tournament. He has a day's rest before the match tomorrow afternoon, and although he doesn't want to admit it to Combeferre, he's not looking forward to it. It's hard to explain exactly how he feels; he just doesn't feel himself. His bones feel stiff, and the heat leaves him with a dull pressure in his head. As the day progresses, he hopes the ache beginning to build in the back of his throat won't amount to anything and still refrains from mentioning it to his coach.

"Enjolras, is everything alright?" Combeferre- who, along with his wife, is currently staying in Enjolras' house while they're in France- asks not long before they head towards a court to train. "You don't seem yourself today."

"Just mentally preparing myself for tomorrow," he doesn't expect his voice to sound as croaky as it does. "I'll tell you if I'm not fine."

"I'm not sure I trust your word. If you're not feeling great today we'd be better to attempt to ward whatever it is off rather than having you retire early from the match tomorrow."

"J'ai mal à la gorge," he slips into speaking his first language, not feeling up to the effort of speaking English. "Sorry, m'okay. It isn't that bad."

"We'll call in your doctor-"

"No, it's probably me just imagining it because I'm nervous."

"So now you're turning into Joly? Come on! At least let me have a look at your throat?"

Reluctantly, Enjolras lets him examine his throat. Combeferre isn't a doctor, but even he can tell that his friend's glands are swollen and that his throat is inflamed. He'd been hoping Enjolras really was fine; he knew how hopeful he was about this being his chance to prove that he could win Roland Garros, but now it seems as though the events of the past years are going to repeat themselves. They do their best to avoid the ailment affecting his match; he takes medicine and trains relatively lightly, but he can't get out of the interview he has that afternoon.

He feels progressively worse as the day goes on; even though he was only playing slow rallies against Combeferre in training, he feels like all of the energy has been drained from his body. It's as if all of the muscles in his body have turned into jelly, and his bones into steel. His head isn't exactly sore, but he feels as if his skull is trying to break through his skin with the pressure building in his brow. Raising his hand towards his neck tentatively, he can't tell whether his glands feel as if they're swollen, even if the pain at the back of his mouth makes him feel as if they are.

He bears a smile as the interview begins, doing his best to not sound like his throat is about to give up on him. He stifles a yawn, cursing himself for appearing so ignorant in doing so, but he just can't help it. He wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep of whatever it is in time for the match, yet he has to sit here on live television and talk nonsense about the fellow players on the tour. He's thankful the interview is in French; it's hard enough for him to force words from his aching throat without having to struggle to form sentences too.

It's notable to mention that the conversation begins to steer towards the meal that he shared with his friends before the BMW Open. The pictures have only recently been released in the press, and the first sight of Grantaire in months has turned the tennis world into mush. He puts up with it, desperately watching the clock, waiting for the torture to be over. As soon as the camera is turned off, he slumps back in his chair and sighs.

"Grippe de Garros?" the interviewer smiles sympathetically.

"Oui," he swallows as he scrambles to get off the set, his throat aching.

By the time he returns home from the interview, he's not got the energy to do much; he slumps down in his living room beside Combeferre, and Combeferre's wife Elise and sighs. He's gotten so close to the pair over his years of being on the tour that he's almost like a brother to both of them; whenever they were in either France or Denmark(their home countries) they'd stay at each others' homes instead of being in hotels, and there'd been many a time(especially considering Enjolras' track record at Roland Garros) where they'd be dealing with an ill companion.

"You should sleep," Elise rests her hand against Enjolras' forehead. "I can't tell if you're warm or not, but I want you to be okay for tomorrow."

"I'll be fine," he tries to protest, although his tone of voice tells a different story.

"If you get through tomorrow you'll have a day to recover until your semi-final, and then a day after that before the final."

"This," he points to his throat. "Could be gone tomorrow. It might be nothing."

"It also might be tonsillitis, which means it won't be gone tomorrow."

"Shh. If we ignore it, it might go away."

Enjolras' -questionable- logic proves illogical. He doesn't feel much worse than he did the night before, but then again, he was feeling pretty awful to begin with. His voice hasn't so much betrayed him; he can still speak, he just sounds strange. If he was any other player, he'd have pulled out already. He'd have realized that there is little chance of him being able to play a good game of tennis if he feels like he can't even get out of bed. But this is Enjolras; the player who will only pull out prior to a match if he's blowing chunks; the player who has played through tonsillitis before(and admittedly failed); the player who'd finished playing the match after he busted his shoulder.

Combeferre, despite his efforts, struggles to get the blond to see sense. He won't allow his coach to send for a doctor. He won't allow his coach to even check him over himself. He won't let his coach tell him not to play.

Once he's on the court, the atmosphere seems to give him a boost of adrenaline which provides him with a bit more of a bounce in his step. He tries to maintain his energy and not waste any of it; his movements remain slow and minimal as he prepares to play. He and Jehan are sent on to the court to warm up; playing rallies, hitting serves, playing a lob so their opponent can practice a smash and the like. He feels alright; he's not overly lethargic, and if he doesn't think about it, the pain in his throat isn't too bad. Deep down, he knows he'll probably be wanting to retire by the second set, or at least call the trainer on, but at least for now, he's okay.

Combeferre watches on worriedly, surrounded by the rest of Enjolras' team. Along with his coach, he's got a physio and people who help him train, but for the most part, it's only Combeferre in his company. He's watching the blond practice his serve, and whilst it may not be as powerful as he usually hits it, it seems that he's going to be okay. He tries to stay calm and have faith in the french man, but with his track record, he knows this match isn't going to be an easy one for Enjolras.

Also watching at the edge of their seats is the tennis world. Bets have been placed on who's going to win, if Enjolras will retire or not, if the 'Grippe de Garros' has made a return. Jean Valjean, who was one of the greatest players of all time in the era of players such as Javert is now at home in the commentating, providing an analysis of the match as it plays out on television. Personally, he's got his money on Enjolras despite the (highly accurate) speculation that he's under the weather, but that could all change once the match has started.

"This match is going to be a tough one for Enjolras, both physically and mentally," he states.

"He's not looking himself is he?" his fellow commentator Dahlia adds. "There has been a lot of speculation as to whether he had taken unwell, and by the looks of things the speculation has rung true. I must admit, I'm worried for him."

"On the flip side, Jean Prouvaire looks on top form. I've loved watching him come out of his shell this tournament. Up until now, he's fallen short on clay. Even when he was playing doubles with Montparnasse, it definitely wasn't his favourite surface, but he's played brilliantly this week. It's like he's a new man."

"Enjolras has been like a completely different player too; Adam Combeferre has proven to be an excellent coach for him. He's just been playing so well."

"I'm hoping whatever is ailing him doesn't bother him too much today; this match may be one of the best of the tournaments."

Enjolras serves first. He usually doesn't take long to ready himself to start the game(he hates all the pointless superstitions other players harbour), but today he takes a bit more time to prepare himself. His arm feels a little heavier, but he manages to hit an alright serve and prepare himself to continue the rally. He holds up well and wins the game with a passing shot, despite the fatigue which quickly builds in his legs as he comes forward to the net to return a sneaky drop-shot. As the set continues, neither falter to allow the other player to break their serve. Jehan comes close, but Enjolras manages to convert the break points with two particularly well placed serves, and the set finally ends at 7-6 to Enjolras.

The second set begins, and the adrenaline is beginning to wear off. He holds up for the first few games but by the time it is 3-3, Jehan manages to break him and goes on to win on his own serve. Enjolras gives up on trying to save the set; he'd rather reserve his energy and try to win the next two. He's not feeling awful exactly; he's just slower, more lethargic.

"Enjolras is just not playing as well as he usually plays," Valjean comments. "Even in the first set, he just doesn't have his usual bounce in his step."

"He doesn't look well does he?" Dahlia adds, and she makes a good point; his face has fallen victim to a bout of pallor even though his cheeks are red, and his tied back blond hair is soaked with sweat, although that may be from the fact he's already played over an hour of tennis and the bizarre springtime heat. "He usually goes for every shot especially on this surface, but he's just not chasing after the ball."

"He's maintaining his energy to keep up with the rest of the match. He's just not hitting his shots with enough power; he has the accuracy, just not the strength for the shots to be effective enough, especially against such a tactical player as Jehan."

As soon as the second set ends, he's having trouble swallowing because his throat is so painful; heck, he's having trouble taking a breath as he slides about the clay. His limbs feel as if they are about to waste away to nothing, the lack of oxygen sending lactic acid to his muscles and preventing them from contracting properly. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he allows Jehan to hit an ace and take the set, and he just knows he won't be able to play on unless he sits down for a minute.

Shaking, he wanders over towards the umpire. Jehan catches on quickly that something is up, moving towards the net to see if his opponent is okay.

"Je suis malade," Enjolras mumbles to the umpire. "The... The trainer."

The crowd is silent, watching Enjolras like a hawk as he sits down and takes a gulp of water, the colour draining from his face. Far too many players use medical time outs as a way to slow down their opponent's momentum, but this is obviously not the case; especially since this is Enjolras, the player who would rather work himself into exhaustion rather than call the medical trainer onto court.

"Enjolras is taking a medical timeout," Jean Valjean notes. "I thought he was just about to retire there. It seems that he has the intention of playing on."

"He looks awful," Dahlia sighs.

The medical trainer kneels down in front of Enjolras and asks him why he's taken a medical time out. He points to his throat, and the trainer places his hand on the player's warm head. Taking one look at him, he pulls out his radio and calls for the physician. Jehan quietly wanders over, soaking a towel with one of the water bottles and hands it to the trainer to place on Enjolras' head to cool him down.

"I want to play on..." he feverishly mumbles. "I j-just... I couldn't breathe, I couldn't swallow..."

"Just take a minute to breathe. Get something to drink," the trainer speaks gently. "You're feverish and it's a warm day already, and we just want to cool you down."

The doctor makes his way quickly to the court. He takes a look at the player's throat and sighs; Combeferre had predicted correctly. Combeferre himself watches worriedly from the crowd, having predicted that this was exactly how the match would play out.

"Je voudrais jouer!" he insists with a croak. "I just need painkillers."


	7. Humble Beginnings

**_Half of this chapter is basically a Feuilly appreciation ramble because who doesn't love Feuilly?_**

**Oh and I'm actually super tempted to write 'Bahorel and The Broken Racket" at some point:')**

**So the Les Mis fandom has kind of went mental recently; thank god I don't have like real life faceclaims for many of the les amis(there's nobody perfect enough to suit each of them).**

* * *

It's a strange situation; players usually retire from the match before they get to this point, or don't play in the first place. Enjolras takes a minute to regain himself once the medication he's given kicks in. The ice wrapped in a towel which had been provided due to the strange heat is pressed against his neck, and the towel Jehan had soaked with water still rests on his forehead.

"You shouldn't play," the trainer sighs. "But it's your decision."

"I'm okay," he insists, some of the colour returning to his face. "Thank you."

He walks slowly back towards the court to serve, his steps minimal to prevent using up any energy he doesn't have to. He chucks the ball into the air, and in the space of no more than a second, he fires the ball down the T. An ace. Jean Prouvaire- one of the greatest returners on the tour- has no chance returning this ball. The crowd erupts in applause.

"That was..." Jean Valjean is speechless, leaving the commentary with a couple of seconds of silence. "Amazing tennis right there. Enjolras could pull it out of the bag if he can keep this up for two sets."

"He's making it obvious that whatever happened just there isn't going to stop him," Dahlia continues. "He may be unwell, but he's going to push himself to the absolute limit today."

"Jean Prouvaire is playing well today too; but Enjolras is clearly much stronger on clay. Even under the weather, he's just a master of this type of court. Prouvaire is playing the better tennis, but Enjolras is having more success with his style of play."

"I really hope Enjolras can hold up for the two or three sets; this is set to be a fight to the death if he can."

Enjolras' good start doesn't continue, as he fluffs up his first serve. His second serve is good enough to spark a rally from the baseline, both holding their shot well. The blond seems to be feeling better; his shots lack their usual power, but he's aggressive enough to force Jehan to make a couple of unforced errors and takes the first game of the set. He also manages to nab an early break, which leads him to win the whole set at 7-5.

One more set. One more set and he's beginning to feel ill again. He breathes in deeply, forcing himself to run through the fatigue, sliding towards every single ball Jehan sends to the other side of the court. Jean Prouvaire doesn't falter either, barely even noticing the blazing heat burning away at his skin. Every move is elegant and seemingly effortless. Both players have long hair, which had been tied back out of their faces, but has now fallen loose and flies wildly in the air. Its 6-5, and if Enjolras manages to break Jehan he'll take the game.

A double fault gives Enjolras an early lead; fifteen love. Jehan bounces back, changing the score to 30-15 much to Enjolras' dismay. In the blink of an eye, it's deuce. And then second deuce. And then sixth. The advantage goes to Enjolras. Jehan's first serve comes up short. The second serve starts a rally. Enjolras hits the ball, with maybe a little more spin than he had intended. The ball looks as if it's going out, but it clips the line. Enjolras has won.

He collapses onto the ground with joy, his white shorts getting covered in red clay. The tiredness finally hits him, and he knows that if he even tries to talk all that will come out will be a whisper, but he's ecstatic. He hugs Jehan over the net, who asks him if he's alright and congratulates him.

When he gets a chance to collect his stuff, he slumps down onto the chair and covers his face with his hands. His body aches all over, and as the happiness begins to wear off, he can't ignore it much longer. He stops to sign a few tennis balls and autograph books, because it's something he always does even if he's had a particularly bad match, and rushes into his changing room, understandably worming his way out of the post match interview. Combeferre has already made his way there, and welcomes his friend with open arms. Enjolras dives into the hug, finally getting a chance to admit to himself how awful he is feeling.

"Worst match of my life," he chokes out. "I thought I was going to collapse at one point."

"You looked as if you were about to as well," Combeferre sighs, placing his hand upon the player's head. "The ice bath may be beneficial in several ways today."

"Ice bath? I just want to sleep..."

"You have to properly recover from the match; the last thing you want is cramp when you're already feeling shitty. It'll cool you down too; you're feverish."

"But-..."

"You only have a day's rest until the semi-final. I want you to be better. This could be your year."

If he is better, he'll go on to play Adrian Feuilly, the rising Polish tennis star. Having never really managed to succeed for his first few years playing professionally, in the past few years he's been working his way into the high ranks. Still to break into the top ten, he's started off well in grand slams and ends up falling short around the half way mark. This Roland Garros has been his most successful major to date, and if he plays his cards right(or if Enjolras is still unwell) he'll have made his first ever grand slam final.

Humble and down to earth, Adrian Feuilly has developed quite the fan base in his years of playing tennis. He'd grew up with very little money, only getting into the sport through showing significant promise when he'd played at school. Unable to afford a television, he'd learnt all he knew about tennis as a kid from learning as he went along. A good teacher or two showed him the ropes, but when it comes down to it he'd used his own instinct and his own skill to get to where he is today. Now wealthy enough from sponsors, he's paid back the people who've helped him throughout his life, and is prevalent in fundraising for children in similar situations.

Well loved by the press, he's a firm favourite to win the French Open this year. He's had an easy journey this year, coming up against some of the less able clay-court players, but he knows that if Enjolras is fit, he's in for one of the toughest games of his life. Feuilly plays a relatively defensive game from the baseline, but on clay his technique verges more on the aggressive side.

Enjolras himself has great admiration for the man; coming from a much wealthier background, he'd been surrounded by the more traditional view of tennis being a 'rich person's sport'. Being Julien Enjolras, however, this was an idea he'd quickly dismissed once he was old enough to think for himself. He hates the exclusivity of the sport to only those who can afford to play it and it's perception as being a 'snob sport', so he's glad that several players have defied this expectation.

Feuilly isn't the only one from a less wealthy background; one name that springs to mind is Bahorel, who will likely be either Feuilly or Enjolras' opponent in the final as he's on the other side of the draw. He had lived in Scotland his whole life, more specifically in Glasgow, only being able to play tennis if he managed to wait around the local park for long enough to get one of the free public courts, and even then they were of horrible quality; those awful stony courts where the ball hardly even bounces. Despite the bad resources, once he was old enough to play at school, he quickly developed a great skill for the sport, and before he knew it he was on the junior circuit, generating quite the response from the world of tennis with his surprise win at junior Wimbledon.

This warm welcome didn't last for long; a lack of good sportsmanship and a reputation for being a sore loser paired with a boisterous attitude earned him a more hostile reaction from the press as his career developed. His anger led to outbursts on pitch, leading to several warnings and a "fan-fiction" on one of the tennis sites christened 'Bahorel and The Broken Racket"; which not only mocked Bahorel's quick temper, but also the emergence of questionable 'Enjolferre' fans at the time.

Despite his reputation, Bahorel is actually a nice person. The mere fact he's Scottish is part of the reason why he's pictured as being so violent; grumpy and patriotic are just some of the stereotypes applied to him. Yes, he's got a tendency to be a bit of a grump, but only when the umpire's been particularly unfair in his calls or when he's angry at himself for playing badly. His patriotism- although only ever displayed in tongue and cheek comments about English players on the tour- is also frowned upon by the rest of Britain.

At Roland Garros so far, he's been particularly well behaved. He likes clay; he's aggressive, of _course _he likes clay. He likes the crowd too; he can't hear the insults if he doesn't understand the words they're hurling at him. He's also toning down the gamesmanship too; he doesn't waste his time between the turnovers, he doesn't pull medical time outs just to slow down his opponent's momentum and he even shows a sense of sportsmanship which he rarely ever displays.

The reasons for this aren't too clear; maybe he's finally realising that his success will mean nothing unless he calms down, or he's realising that getting angry can be detrimental to his game. Either way, it seems to be working. Being calm and collected helps him to hone his aggression into his shots instead. Whether it be Feuilly or Enjolras, they're going to be in for a particularly difficult final if they have hopes of taking the title.


	8. Kisses and Cuddles

Home proves to be the only thing Enjolras wants as he trudges out of the car, shivering and shaking his way towards the front door. Watching his friend fumble with the keys in his wobbling hands, Combeferre reaches over, brushing his own warm hands against Enjolras' freezing cold fingertips. He rasps a 'thank you' in response, feeling the absence of the heat radiating off his coach as his hands move away from him. He runs a hand through his sweat soaked hair even though he'd had a shower; his temperature is at least a degree over what it probably should be, and the hot weather doesn't particularly help.

"You'll feel much better once the antibiotics kick in," Combeferre watches him to ensure he doesn't collapse on his way to the couch. "And there are throat lozenges if your throat is particularly sore."

"M'okay," he mumbles tiredly. "Sore throat usually goes away quickly; it's just the generally feeling well... merde!"

"I'm really impressed by you today; to be able to play like that feeling this awful... it's a talent only you could master."

"Sorry for being stubborn. I just hate admitting when I'm not feeling my best."

"I'm proud of you for being sensible and telling me; I'd rather that than having you collapse on the court."

"I still might; this won't go away within a day."

"But it will be more manageable."

"I don't want to manage it though; I want it to go away. Today's match was hell. I was seconds away from collapsing or puking or heck, I felt like I was _dying._"

"Now you're just being melodramatic."

"And now you're just being annoying."

"And now you should stop talking or you'll sound like a dying cat that's had it's vocal chords removed."

"I hate you," Enjolras croaks and slumps further into the sofa. "I already sound like a dying cat that's had its vocal chords removed. We both know I'm still going to be feeling awful on the day of the match; we're just delaying the inevitable by assuming I'm going to play until I'm not."

"You're feverish; I'm not letting you decide what's going on with the match against Feuilly until you're not a burning like a blast furnace."

It's this particular moment which Enjolras seizes to bury his face into a pillow, mustering the best scream of unhappiness he can manage(which is somewhere between a meowing kitten and a baby lion). If there's anything he hates, it's illness. All throughout his life, he'd be the kid who'd show up at school coughing and sniffling, and sometimes even throwing up and would still insist he was fine. He'd hide the fact he was under the weather until he was well, so drenched with rain that he could barely stand any more.

This habit has since drifted away from him slightly; he can't be like that when his body is the most important element in his career. As cliché as it may sound, his body is a temple. The slightest cold has to be steered off before it causes any problems. Any degree of the flu has to be avoided, and if this isn't possible, caution must be made to make sure it doesn't go to his chest(and unluckily for Enjolras, it always does). Any food that passes past his mouth _must _be well cooked with no risk of giving him food poisoning. Any bug, cough, sneeze or sniffle is contained and controlled like an oil spill, prevented from being detrimental to his game.

It's second nature to most players; Combeferre was well known for being one of the healthiest players on the tour, Feuilly has an indescribable levels of fitness and Courfeyrac is one of those insufferable people who can eat their own weight in the unhealthiest foods in the planet and drink themselves into oblivion and still be able to play match after match without ever getting sick too often. Enjolras' attempts, however, are much less futile. He doesn't like being sick, and up until now he's been able to get away with it with Javert as his coach. But now with Combeferre, he's forced to rest. He's forced to not train, and he's forced to eat well, and he's forced to ward off any illnesses by the best means possible; rest and recuperation.

So that's what he's reduced to now. He wants to train. He knows that even if he does feel better, he'll end up getting cramp if he doesn't train at least a little bit. But he's not going to be allowed to train. He's being forced to lie on a sofa or in his bed and do nothing; he's useless. He stays silent; not that he's very capeable of speaking in the first place. He doesn't want to do anything because he _can't _do anything.

"Alright, honey?" Combeferre's wife Elise sighs sympathetically.

"Come here..." he whispers, sitting up slightly so she can sit down beside him.

"Feeling altogether awful, then?" he nods as he rests his head onto her lap.

"Should I be jealous?" Combeferre jokes as he wanders into the room; he knows Enjolras isn't interested in women, so it's all light-hearted humour. "Would you like anything? A drink? Something to eat?"

"My health back?" he manages to force out from his raw throat. "I just want to sleep."

"You'd be more comfortable sleeping in a bed rather than on the sofa-"

"I'm alright here," he smiles gently as Elise continues to run her hand gently through his thick blonde hair.

...

As ashamed as he is to admit it, Jehan is disappointed. He'd been inches away from a semi-final of a major, and he had been pipped to the post by someone who wasn't even in full health. It's not that he is obsessed with winning; he just wants the reassurance that he is good at tennis and that he is good enough to beat the best. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his tennis career being second best; he wants to be the tennis player that people look at and say 'he is one of the best players in the world' or 'he deserves to be number one'. He doesn't want them to say 'he's alright', or 'he's not as good as Combeferre was'.

He feels slightly down as he walks into his empty house. He should sleep and recover from the match, but he can't seem to shut off his mind. Thoughts run through his mind; self depreciation has become his usual habit after a particularly bad loss. His mind is constantly putting him down; _you'll never win a grand slam, you'll never be as good as Combeferre or Grantaire, you'll never be number one seed. _

He's lost; not sure how to react to the events of the day. Guilt creeps up on him as he lets the thoughts stir in his head; Enjolras' win was marvellous, yet here he is feeling sorry for himself. He wants to speak to someone; to pour his heart out and to not be judged.

His mind drifts towards one person; Courfeyrac. The pair have become extremely close since the meal in Germany. Jean Prouvaire's mellow demeanour and Courfeyrac's lively personality fit together well, like complimentary colours. They have long phone calls when they are training in different parts of the world, and spend most off their time off court in each other's company if they're nearby. Subconsciously, Prouvaire reaches for the phone and taps in his number without thinking. In just half an hour, Courfeyrac is standing at his door, a four pack of beers clutched in his hand.

"You know, if the wind blows your face will stay like that," he grins cheerily, stepping past Prouvaire and into the hall. "I lost too you know. Second round as well."

"Shut up," Jehan smiles gently. "It was just a tough match, okay?"

"And you wanted to win it."

"Yes."

"I thought you didn't care about winning?"

"But I care about playing good tennis."

"You were playing Enjolras. On _clay _for goodness sake! You played great tennis; he's like... the clay master."

"I'm allowed to be disappointed, Courf."

"Not when it's your fault I'm missing out on a night out; I've only got a week left before I'm leaving France, I actually want to enjoy it?" this only earns an even larger frown from Jean Prouvaire. "I'm only kidding! Your company is much better than a crappy club or something; although it would be nice for us to hook up to make up for it..."

"You can go out, it's fine. I just-"

"I told you, I want to be here. Maybe it's time I calm it with my antics-"

"Who are you and what have you done with Brian Courfeyrac?"

"I'm serious," he tries to protest, but a laugh erupts from his throat.

"Thank you for coming, anyway."

"No problem," he hands him a beer, ruffles his hair and jokingly kisses him on the cheek as he goes to fetch food from Jehan's kitchen.

Although Jehan usually chooses not to drink unless he's celebrating, he accepts the bottle and twists it open. By the end of the night, they've finished the four pack and Courfeyrac makes another run to the shops to get more. Slightly intoxicated, Jehan forgets that he lost miserably today. Playing table tennis, he cinches another victory instead. Raising his little wooden racket in the air valiantly, he dances around Courfeyrac and smiles.

In the moment, Courfeyrac grabs his arm and stops him from spinning, and returns the grin. He waits cautiously, waiting for his friend to silently acknowledge and consent to what he's about to do. They move closer towards each other, time slowing to a halt as they edge closer. Their lips touch, Jehan's hand subconsciously reaching for Courfeyrac's. Courfeyrac pulls away for a second and smiles, his lips pressing against Prouvaire's for a second time, running his hands through Jehan's thick hair.

"I told you we were going to hook up."


	9. Flying On The Clay

The pair unearth the next morning, their hands still intertwined as they sink back into the sofa. Courfeyrac nuzzles into Jehan's shoulder, a smile still spread across his lips as he kisses Jean Prouvaire's neck. Jehan rests his head against Courfeyrac's, kissing his cheek.

"Did we basically just re-enact one of those Brihan fan-fictions?" Courfeyrac suddenly turns to him, bursting into a fit of laughter.

"I think we just did," Jehan chuckles.

"Tonight's been much better than a shitty night out."

"Of course it has been; you've been with me."

"I like you."

"I like you too."

...

Dressed head to toe in his training gear, his face as pale as his stark white t-shirt, Enolras finally emerges from his bedroom after an awful night's sleep. It's hard to describe how awful he feels; he feels worse. His throat is tight and he can hardly swallow, and he's shivering as he clutches his racket in his hand. Combeferre looks up from the sofa where he sits reading a book and laughs.

"If you think you're training today, you've got another thing coming," he shakes his head.

"Hier, je suis allé! J'ai joué!" he protests, his voice sounding strange from the illness.

"Which is why you're speaking French?"

"A language you are fluent in."

"A language which I'm not as fluent in as English. You only ever speak in French to me if you're too ill to form sentences in English; we agreed to speak something other than our mother tongues because you do not know Danish."

"I need to train, Combeferre. I need to know if I'm able to play through feeling like this."

"And pass out in the process? No. We want you to be well enough to play; not to have a match like yesterday."

"We may as well just cancel," he flops down face first into the sofa, his tennis racquet clattering on the floor as he lets it drop from his fingers.

"Have faith, young grasshopper. We have the tools to make you feel better; antibiotics, pain medication, as much tea as you'll ever want to consume in a lifetime."

"I have to train at least a little bit; I'll cramp up tomorrow!"

"You can warm up properly tomorrow morning. We can handle a cramp in your leg or whatever; what we don't want is you collapsing."

Enjolras spends most of the day sleeping, his face still pressed against the cushion of the sofa and his arm numb from the position he's laying in. The spaces between his deep slumber are filled with Combeferre and Elise trying to convince him to eat something, and miserable complaints muffled into the pillow. He watches a little bit of the women's semi finals, but he's one hundred percent sure Cosette is going to win so he loses interest quickly. They finally manage to coax him into lying on his back instead after a couple of hours, giving them the opportunity to cool him down by placing a cold flannel on his forehead. He tries to push them away, confused as to why they'd be trying to lower his body temperature when he feels as if his blood is turning into ice.

"I hate this," he mumbles feverishly, sitting up to relieve his aching muscles.

"It's alright," Combeferre sighs. "The antibiotics will work tomorrow."

"You said that yesterday."

"They will."

Combeferre is right. Enjolras wakes up the next morning, not exactly healed of his ailment, but sure as hell feeling much better. His sore throat seems to have almost disappeared, even if his voice does still sound a bit funny. He's still a little lethargic in a way he can't explain and there's a vague tinge of pain in his head, but once he forces down his breakfast he feels much better. He heads down to one of the practice courts and plays a few rallies with Combeferre and warms up. He knows he's going to hold up for the match today, melting into a rhythm as he hits another forehand towards his coach.

"You'd never think you're not feeling your best," Combeferre smiles as they begin to think about heading towards Roland Garros. "Remember, Feuilly doesn't like playing left-handers. You've got the advantage today, Enjolras."

"No. Feuilly definitely does; he's the one in full health. He used to hate playing lefties; now he's playing so much better, it doesn't really matter any more."

"You're on clay; you still have the advantage."

"Feuilly likes playing on clay."

"Alright! Alright! I'm just trying to make you feel a little better about today's match," he laughs as they climb into the car. "How are you feeling?"

"Throat doesn't hurt. Head feels kind of weird. Nothing I can't cope with."

"So no passing out?"

"No passing out."

By the time they arrive at the tournament, Bahorel is just a couple of games away from winning his match in straight sets. As Enjolras stretches in the changing room, he watches from the iPad Combeferre has propped up on the bench. He sighs; theirs no way he's going to be able to beat him if he gets through his match today. Bahorel is on top form; he's far from his usual sloppy technique, sliding around the clay with a bizarre grace that seems almost foreign to him. The biggest difference is that he's calm; and with peace of mind, comes the great tennis he's capable of playing.

Enjolras doesn't care about winning though; he just wants to prove everyone wrong and play tennis. He wants to prove that he can win a grand slam and that he can battle through illness and that he can play well on clay. As worry builds in his throat and his nerves make his body feel as if it's going to betray him, he tries to focus on why he chooses to play tennis.

He casts aside any thoughts about competition, victory and loss and thinks only of his beloved sport. The gentle glide of his trainers as he slides carefully into the clay which makes him feel as if he's flying; the power surging through his arm as he lets the racket collide with the ball; the feeling in his muscles after hours playing a match; the feeling like time comes to a stop as he throws the ball in the air to serve. Tennis makes him feel free; he can slip about the court until his heart is content. While other players such as Combeferre would spend hours meticulously thinking about theory and technique, Enjolras just plays.

It's a beautiful thing to watch, a player slipping into some sort of trance with how invested in the sport they are. The fluidity of his movements; the gentle smile upon his face, the relaxedness of his muscles as he reaches to return a shot.

Bahorel wins. Enjolras and Feuilly are alerted and told to get ready. Feeling calm, Enjolras grabs his bags and strolls down the hall, a smile pressed against his face.

"You seem happy," Combeferre grins as he's about to head in the opposite direction to get to his seat.

"I feel... good," he smiles.

"Good luck. And _please_, for goodness sake, don't break a leg."

"Will do, coach."

"If you're not feeling well, retire. Don't push yourself like you did the other day-"

"Combeferre?"

"Hmm?"

"Stop it with the lecture."

He practically strides onto the court, and despite the slight tinge of pallor on his cheek, he looks the picture of health. He practically bounds up to the baseline to get ready to play, his hands drifting gently along the strings of his racket as he waits for Feuilly. He runs a hand through his hair, which is held back in a braid and already coming loose and smiles.

"Enjolras looks ready for this match," Valjean comments. "You can just see the difference a day's rest has made. Although, if you hear him talking to the umpire while they are waiting right now, he doesn't sound completely well."

"This seems promising," Dahlia adds. "This is going to be an excellent game."

"Feuilly's looking great too; he usually falters at the last hurdle, but he's very calm today."

"It seems that all of the players are more tranquil; Bahorel seemed like a different man today, Feuilly isn't a bucket full of nerves, and as usual Enjolras is just... he's so relaxed, isn't he?"

"Definitely."

The match begins, and Enjolras is on top form. He fires serves towards Feuilly and takes the first game, and returns excellently to cinch the first break of the set. Feuilly- arguably one of the best returners on the tour- manages to break back, but Enjolras doesn't give up. He wins the set 6-3, and still feels as if he could play several more hours of tennis.

"This is cracking up to be a wonderful match!" Valjean shakes his head in amazement.


	10. Bad Line Call

Feuilly stares over from his side of the net, preparing himself to serve. His muscles have begun to tense up; his calm attitude seems to have slipped away. He fumbles with his first serve, the ball feeling like a rock in his hand as he throws it in the air. He stops, bouncing the ball a couple of times before hitting his second serve. It's slow and easy for Enjolras to return, but at least it starts the rally. He tries to attune himself to the clay beneath his feet, but he's thinking about it too much; he slips and covers himself in the red powder.

He bounces up quickly and serves again, and a rally begins. He forces Enjolras to come to the net -something he _hates _to do- and wins the point. He wins the game, and it's Enjolras' turn to serve.

The rally starts, and both players show know signs of giving up. Enjolras hits the ball again, and it looks as if it's long. The call of 'out' is screamed just before Feuilly hits the ball, causing him to not hit it with as much power and fire it into the net.

"Challenge?" Enjolras looks towards the umpire, seeing how the ball clipped the line.

The ball is in. Enjolras is given the point.

"Are you joking me?" Feuilly's eyes widen, walking up to the umpire. "The ball was called out! And then I didn't hit it properly because it was out!"

The umpire tries to calm him, but he's having no luck.

"Feuilly is right," Jean Valjean notes. "But it doesn't look like the umpire is having any of it."

"That's not fair!" Feuilly isn't the kind to get angry, yet the ferocity in his voice almost seems natural to him. "You shouted out so I didn't hit it!"

"Feuilly-"

"No! It's not fair!"

But it's hopeless. On the umpire's judgement, Enjolras is given the point. Feuilly whispers a 'sorry' across the net, to which Enjolras shakes off and forgives him easily. Feuilly is still fuelled with anger, his hands curling fervently around his racket. The stark contrast between the two players couldn't be more obvious at this moment in time.

There's Enjolras; calm, serene, almost cold as he glares and waits for the shot. Not one emotion is displayed on his face; he's a closed book, indifferent to his surroundings. He tries not to let calls of 'out' get in his way; every challenge is only ever requested if he feels that the point is rightfully his. Any bad decisions from the umpire however, and he'd be acting exactly how Feuilly is reacting. He doesn't understand how an _umpire _can't grasp the basics of the sport he loves so much.

Feuilly however, can be a bit of a firecracker. Off court, he's kind-hearted and opinionated. On court, he's energetic and wears his heart on his sleeve. Nothing like Bahorel however, he only ever lets things get to him if the umpire's decision is unfair. He doesn't appreciate injustice in how points are given; you can guarantee that if Enjolras had been in his position with what had just happened in the match, he'd still be screaming to the high heavens for the right thing to be done. Whether it's his points or his opponent's points up for concern, he'll care just as much about either.

By the time he returns to the baseline, he's calmed down a little. His face has returned to it's normal shade, only a tinge of puce still upon his cheeks. He takes a deep breath, and manages to take the game. It's a break, and it's looking as if he's about to take the second set; and he does. He wins the set 6-4. He takes the time in between the changeover to calm down; it's probably going to go down in the record books for the angriest eating of a banana the way he wolfed it down.

On the other side of the court, Enjolras too is eating; however, he's struggling. He's feeling better, but his appetite still hasn't exactly returned and it's difficult for him to force down the half of the granola bar that he needs to eat or else he'll have very little energy for the next set. It's on his mind and getting him a little worked up as he walks up towards the baseline.

It looks as if he's lost it as he allows Feuilly to break early. He's not serving properly, his first serve percentage drops massively, and he even has a couple of double faults. He's not feeling ill again exactly; he just feels strange. His movements are slower, his racket feels heavier, his footwork just isn't accurate enough. He doesn't go for the shots he needs to run for; which is a disaster on this particular surface.

It's 4-0.

Enjolras serves an ace. 15-0. The ball goes into play, sparking a long rally from the baselines consisting of ground-strokes, both players waiting for the other to make an unforced error. The ball goes out. 30-0. Another ace. 40-0. Enjolras wins another point and wins the game. It's not much use to him; it's a 'breadstick' instead of a 'bagel' which only exists to keep his dignity intact, yet will contribute nothing towards the match as a whole.

Yet Enjolras manages to break Feuilly. It's not that Feuilly has started playing badly; Enjolras is just playing better. He slips back into a rhythm, letting his feet drift into the clay as he swings his racket. He's in his element; the clay melds perfectly with his technique as he hits shots that most players would only dream of playing. He's stopped thinking about the fact that he's still not his full self, and instead thinks of nothing. Every shot, slide and decision is made upon instinct; the thoughts don't run through his head. It feels as if playing this game has become a relay response; as if his body doesn't even have to process the actions in his brain before performing them.

It's 4-4.

He could win this.

He serves. He brings the score to 40-0. It looks as if he could take the set. Feuilly bites back, returning each shot with such power that Enjolras can't keep up.

_Deuce._

If there's anything that Enjolras hates about this sport, it's when a game goes to a deuce. When the players play well, it just drags on the match. When the players play badly, it's just wasting time on a pointless shot. He likes how tennis can flow freely, drifting into each game without much to halt the fluidity of the play; deuce just ruins that for him. 'Advantage' just makes him feel nervous. It's awful.

After three deuces, he eventually takes the game. He breaks. he takes the set.

Just one more set. Just one more set, and Enjolras is on _fire; _in more ways than one. His medicine- the antibiotics, the antipyretic and analgesic- are beginning to wear off. His throat's a little dry and raspy, and his skin is burning. Combeferre watches on worriedly, knowing from the red tint of the man's skin that his fever is without a doubt about thirty eight. It doesn't seem to be bothering Enjolras though; in probably the fasted three games in his life, the score is 3-0 to him. He's mastering the clay, his body barely even feeling the effects of the infection.

6-3.

He's won.

_He's in the final. _


	11. After The Match

Watching the events unfold from the safety of Jehan's home, Jean Prouvaire and Courfeyrac have barely strayed from each other's company after the events of the night before. Cheering on Enjolras from the sofa, the pair cuddle a little closer.

"Jehan?" Courfeyrac speaks tepidly, his voice quavering slightly.

"Hmm?" Jehan looks up.

"I-... Are we together? Like a couple?"

"If that's what you want-"

"I'm just going to come right out and say it's not."

Jehan's smile doesn't fade. He nods; he agrees. But inside his heart is fragmenting into a million pieces. He thinks he loves Courfeyrac; they've known each other for a while now, and with every little conversation and every little smile his heart almost leaps out of his chest. A writer(mostly of poetry that has never seen the light of day) in his downtime, Jehan has a bit of a reputation for being a hopeless romantic. He wouldn't agree, but however accurate this particular perception may be, he's fallen head over heels over the Irish man.

He's not surprised. Courfeyrac and commitment are just two words that don't go together. He wants to be about to go out and drink and meet people without feeling like he's betraying somebody if he hooks up with them. He likes Jehan, he really does; he's just not ready to _date. _Dating is just something he doesn't do; not once in his tennis career has he ever been with someone for longer than a few weeks. There's been guys and girls he's been snapped with stumbling out of clubs or after parties, but not once has he actually been committed to someone.

Jehan understands. He really does. It's just not the news he to hear.

"One day, Prouvaire," Courfeyrac smiles obliviously. "I'll be happy to be tied down. If there's anybody I'd be committed to it'd be you.. But... I want to be free for now. Not yet... One day."

"I get it," Jehan puts on a brave face. "I really do. I feel similar..."

The atmosphere gets a little awkward from then on; Jehan's quiet, and Courfeyrac's attempts at making conversation seem to backfire. He quickly slips out, regretting his stupid decisions as he steps out of the front door.

Jean Prouvaire is the most compassionate man he has ever laid eyes on. Every time he gets a glance of the tennis player, he can feel a knot form in his stomach and he can't pull his eyes away from looking at his face. He loves him. _He loves him. _He couldn't care less about the girls and guys he parties with; now that he's away from the situation, he's realised that it's Jehan he wants.

But it's too late. He's still too scared of commitment. He still doesn't want to have to hold back on a night out in fear of upsetting the other man. He hurries back to his hotel, his fingernails digging into his palms as he tries to quell the regret building in his throat. He congratulates Enjolras by text, before deciding to forget about his worries by having a night out.

...

"So Enjolras," the after-match interviewer smiles towards him. "Congratulations on being in the final. How do you feel about today's game?"

"It's definitely not the best tennis I've ever played, but I really enjoyed today's match. It was very calm and it didn't feel like a semi-final to me."

"Everyone watching certainly felt like it was though; I was on the edge of my seat at some parts. How did you feel about the drama over that line call?"

"Feuilly was completely right; the umpire made a wrong call. He came straight back from that though. I really admire him as a player. His skill is just so... refined."

"Now you haven't been well for the past couple of days; are you feeling any better now? It would seem that you are in perfect health from the way you were playing today, but I can tell from your voice you're still not one hundred percent."

"I'm going to be curling up in bed as soon as I get the chance; I felt fine while playing but I'm not feeling as great now. When you're playing you have all this adrenaline and every ache and pain just fades away and you have more energy; I was struggling in the later stages as that began to wear off, but I was still in a good rhythm and it turned out to be in my favour," he croaks.

"You seem to have a lot more stamina this year though; is that down to Combeferre as your new coach?"

"Definitely. He's great at enforcing the importance of fitness and without a doubt that is why I've been able to power through this particular illness. Just in general my game is a lot more fluid and I'm moving faster and I just feel a whole lot better during longer matches."

"Well I hope you're feeling better for the final; it's been really nice to get a chance to speak to you."

"Thank you."

Enjolras is practically shaking by the time he walks away from the interview, almost certain that he's going to pass out on his way to the changing room. Combeferre thankfully meets him halfway with all of his equipment, and has to hold the poor man up as they head to the car. The blonde sighs with relief when Combeferre tells him that it would be unfair to put him through his usual cool down routine; although this is mostly because the ice bath hadn't been as effective as they had thought it would be after his match with Jehan.

"Not good?" Combeferre speaks quietly as he drives towards Enjolras' home, able to tell that his friend's head is killing him.

"Nope," he mumbles. "I felt fine until the end of that interview... Now I just..."

Combeferre is pretty sure Enjolras falls asleep half-way through the car journey; he's curled up in his hoodie, his eyes closed gently as he presses his head against the car window. He's been running on nothing more than adrenaline throughout the entire day, and now that he's away from the environment of the court, his body shuts down and refuses to co-operate. His throat still doesn't hurt, yet he just feels like he's about to faint with every movement he makes. Combeferre literally has to carry him into his house and lower him onto the sofa, placing a cold compress on his forehead to try and calm his nasty temperature.

"How is he?" Elise smiles gently as she notices their presence in the house.

"He fell asleep in the car; I couldn't get him to stay awake enough for him to be able to walk in."

"How bad is his fever?"

"Thirty nine."

"Are you alright?"

"Worried. I-I really thought he'd pass out on court or something."

"He's alright. You're a good coach for him, Combeferre," she sighs, opening her arms as he buries his head into her shoulder. "You're just tired; you've been up since six this morning. Go sleep, I'll look after Enjolras."

"Thank you," he smiles, kissing her gently on the lips.


	12. The Changing Room

Even with a day's rest, Enjolras is unable to shake the awful fatigue which overruns his body on the morning of the French Open final. Combeferre suggests that they go through the day as normal, and then see once they get to Roland Garros whether he's fit enough to play. He warms up in the morning, but even twenty minutes of light training cause him to feel dizzy and make his calves feel like the muscles are melting away.

He keeps going; if there's anything he's learned the importance of this week, it's endurance. Feelings of pain or illness are as much in the mind as they are a physical complaint; there are of course things that are impossible to play through sometimes(bad injuries, reoccurring injuries, respiratory infections, anything vaguely serious), but aches and pains and minor ailments usually don't come under that category. It's all about feeling the pain, and playing on anyway. But Enjolras has done that twice already, and it's going to be difficult against such an aggressive player as Bahorel.

It's strange for a player such as Charlie Bahorel who is not from a hot country where clay courts are more common to be so adept at playing on clay. Of course, Charlie Bahorel had spent the majority of his teenage years at a special school in Spain where he managed to get used to surface, but he'd learnt the sport on other much faster surfaces. He's aggressive though, which may explain why this type of court suits him so well. The ball just seems to do what he asks of it. His physique must help; agile and quick, he's capable of chasing after every ball and waiting for a winner.

He's ready for this match; this tournament has been a easy ride for him. The lack of strong clay players has meant that he's had little competition, and only now is he playing against someone adept on this surface.

He's first into the changing room; it's strange that even at Grand Slam finals the players share, but it seems to set a routine that most players don't mind. Unlike most players, Bahorel doesn't hold much value on repetitive routines and superstitions before a match; he just goes along with whatever happens and does everything has to do. He tapes his fingers as without doing so, his hands will be covered in blisters. Then a quick jog on the spot and stretches; he'll get a proper warm up later, but this helps him to wake up and loosen his muscles.

He's busy checking all of his rackets when Enjolras shuffles in with his fitness trainer and physio.

Enjolras looks truly and utterly terrible; stark white except from his bright red cheeks, eyes watering and swallowing desperately against the strange feeling in his throat. He'd normally be having his own little warm up, but he seems to have sat down on the little bench with very few intentions of getting up. The two members of his team don't seem to notice; they just continue talking about the match ahead.

Enjolras has his head in his hands now, his elbows resting on his knees. He's shaking feverishly, his breath hitching.

Now, if you were a regular tennis spectator, you'd assume that Bahorel would think little of it. Perceived to be not the nicest person on the tennis circuit, you'd have thought he'd only care about the prospect of a win. However, that couldn't be far from true. A pang of empathy builds in his heart; he's forced to remember the time that he'd been suffering from the beginnings a chest infection during the Olympics, and had been just seconds away from pulling out in the final(of course, he had retired after the second set handing the gold medal to Combeferre).

He wanders over quietly, taking a seat on the bench beside his opponent. He can feel the fevered heat radiating off the blonde, and the worry just builds in his chest.

"Enjolras?" he whispers gently, his gruff tone much softer than usual. "Enjolras, are you alright?"

Bahorel's worried tone seems to alert the two members of Enjolras' team. He steps aside, letting them talk to the blond. He can overhear 'can't play', and 'I'll faint' and bows his head with anxiety; he doesn't exactly want the victory that he'll receive should Enjolras pull out.

Enjolras is escorted out, leaving Bahorel confused about what's happening with the match ahead. His heart sinks when he sees the official wander through; he knows exactly what has happened. Enjolras feels unable to play the match. Bahorel has won the French open.

It certainly doesn't feel like a victory. It's such a strange occurrence that he isn't exactly sure what is going to be happening, but the official tells him that there will be a winner's ceremony and he'll be handed his trophy, just without his opponent's presence. The crowd are expecting a smiling Bahorel; or as the papers would write, 'smirking'. They're expecting a smug grin as he accepts the trophy; a self-indulging speech; not one mention of his ill opponent.

That is not what they receive. He's subdued as he wanders out, still dressed head to toe in his bright tennis apparel. He can't shake the guilt over the fact that he's gaining from such unfair events. He wishes that neither of them would be given the victory; that it would wait until Enjolras was well enough to play and then determined fair and square. But it doesn't quite work that way.

He shyly gets handed the trophy, the crowd watching him and waiting for him to make a wrong move and offend someone. A microphone is placed in his hand; he takes a second to compose himself before he speaks.

"I um..." he laughs awkwardly. "This doesn't even feel right. I wish Enjolras had been well enough to play today. I can imagine that it would have been an excellent match; he's such a great player and this is his surface. I saw him before the match and I just... I was worried about him. I'm sure he'll be winning Wimbledon though."


End file.
